The One Who Shouldn't Be Alive

Chapter One: The Presidential Ghost

A/N: This is a short story. JFK is romanticized for the purposes of this plotline. Doing a little research about him will probably ruin this for you, so if you don't know anything about his history, please wait until AFTER you finish reading this to research! That being said, I hope you enjoy, and if you do, PLEASE leave a review, and don't forget to check out some of my other works!

I couldn't stop staring at him. Him, the President of the United States. The one whose assassination I had, by some strange twist, actually managed to prevent. I hadn't been able to save Jackie though. Her death would haunt me for the rest of my life. I knew it would haunt him, too.

Still, there he stood on my doorstep, strangely devoid of his usual flank of Secret Service associates. I didn't doubt they were far away, but he must have demanded privacy with every ounce of power he had. And, coming from this man—a man of the utmost power in every manner of speaking, but so physically unstable and on the precipice of disaster—that said a lot. It was the only explanation. But why was he here? Why now?

It had been months since I'd pushed Oswald from the 6th floor window and saved the President's life. It had been months since I had seen his wife take the fatal shot in his place. Months since I'd seen the most powerful man in the world break into the sort of body-wracking sobs I would hear every day for the rest of my life. Months since he had looked into my eyes and told me he'd wished I'd never come, so that it would be him buried in the cold ground instead of her, the woman he had loved, still loved, and would never stop loving.

I had never expected to see him again, but yet, there he stood.

"Mister President," I said finally, my voice flat and my nod curt. I looked at him, at his stance, at the way his palm pressed against the door frame to support his weight so that his fragile back wouldn't have to do so alone. I took note of how quickly he righted himself at the sound of my greeting, knowing that so swift a motion must have caused him pain, but never did he falter or wince. The Presidency had done at least that much for him.

I wanted to scold him, to slap him across the face and demand to know how, why he would be so stupid as to show up on my tiny door step so utterly unprotected mere months after a lunatic had tried to blow his head off—and nearly succeeded, at that. I wanted to knock his lights out at his brash disregard for what I had done for him, for everything I had gone through and sacrificed to make sure he stayed safe. I wanted to scream at him and throw him off the concrete steps, back to his government-issued Cadillac, in his government-issued suit, to his government-issued oval office. But in the end, I couldn't do it. The way that man was looking at me sent a chill through my body, and I steeled my self control to settle on a simplistic, "How can I help you, Sir?"

He looked startled for a moment, as though he hadn't thought this visit through in its entirety, but it was only just for a moment. He recovered in swift fashion, straightening his feeble back even further and then clasping his hands together behind it. From his greater height, he looked down at me, and in spite of my anger toward him and what he had said to me on November 22nd, I felt myself shrink under his stern gaze.

"May I come in, Miss Morris?"

His eyebrows stayed raised as we studied one another. He could sense my hesitance, I was certain of it, but I didn't hesitate for long. I wanted him off that porch one way or another, and at the moment it seemed that allowing him through the door was the safest option. Kennedy might be frail, but he still knew how to hold his ground. I nodded stiffly without saying anything, and then stepped aside to allow him entrance. Once he was inside, I closed the door behind him and then turned my back to it, folding my arms across my chest in a very un-ladylike fashion, especially in 1964.